


Grab Your Coat

by captainshellhead, vibraniumstark



Category: Temeraire - Naomi Novik
Genre: Anal Sex, Book 8: Blood of Tyrants, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Sharing Clothes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-13
Updated: 2015-09-13
Packaged: 2018-04-20 15:51:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4793417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captainshellhead/pseuds/captainshellhead, https://archiveofourown.org/users/vibraniumstark/pseuds/vibraniumstark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Laurence and Tharkay blow off some steam, and Laurence learns he should be a little more careful about sleeping late.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Grab Your Coat

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta'd? Probably a little rough? There are no justification for this other than that we wondered how Temeraire would react to them sharing clothes.

Tharkay cut a handsome image, even wearing the somewhat worn captain’s coat Granby had loaned him after his rescue—the only one without any expensive embellishments, and therefore the only one Iskierka was willing to allow him to part with. Tharkay’s own coat had been ruined, and they had found him the replacement on Temeraire’s own insistence that he dress the part of an aviator while flying with them, even if he was not strictly speaking one of Temeraire’s crew. The coat was significantly more worn in one arm that the other, where the color had faded in one elbow from use and a faint yet stubborn crease had set in where the other sleeve had been rolled up to accommodate Granby’s missing arm. 

His features were thrown in sharp relief in the flickering light of the candle burning low on Laurence’s desk, now dripping small dots of wax on the wood next to the maps strewn across it’s surface. 

It went like this: they would spend the day on dragonback, headed northwards with the hope that their breakneck speed would be enough to outpace Napoleon, flying with their small company towards their next waiting supply point while the wind tore at their clothes and hair and near burned their skin with the brisk force of it, until they were at the same time exhausted and alive with the thrill of it when they finally stopped to make camp. 

Laurence would retire to his tent, under Temeraire’s careful watch, as he was still somewhat overly protective after the many attempts at his life, and would occupy himself with examining the maps of their route and their destination, or revisiting the old letters that held new meaning with his newly reclaimed memories. Some minutes later, the tent flap would rustle quietly, careful to keep the intrusion unnoticed by any outside party, and they would find relief in one another in the dim light of the late evening.

Laurence gripped the front of Tharkay’s jacket, rumpling it still further, and stripped it from his shoulders in one swift move, tugging it a little more roughly where it caught and pinned Tharkay’s forearms, nipping at his jaw as he dropped the garment to the floor. Laurence was careful not to catch his hands on the cuffs, with a gentleness that was hard to enforce with the urgency of the motion—having taking the brunt of Tharkay’s torture at the hands of General Fela’s men, his hands would take some time to heal, and Laurence did not want to hinder his convalescence any further than Tharkay’s own stubborn refusal to rest surely would.

Tharkay smiled ruefully, noticing Laurence’s hesitation, and reached up to pry at the knot of Laurence’s neckcloth with those same battered fingers, defiantly, and tug the fabric free to bare his neck to Tharkay’s tongue.

Laurence shed his coat and cast it away to join Tharkay’s own coat on the floor, and made quick work of their trousers; he was in little mood to be patient, having spent already an entire day perched near motionless on Temeraire’s back, he felt an incredible restlessness in his movements, finding himself embarrassingly eager to fall onto the plush cushion of the cot. It could hold the two of them just barely, being slightly too small in width, though Laurence was not inclined to complain, with the weight of his hips pressing Tharkay down into the mat. 

“You are comfortable?” Laurence asked, mouthing the words breathlessly against Tharkay’s lips. 

“How could I not be, on a bed fit for a prince,” Tharkay said, edging his fingers devilishly downwards. Laurence sighed, familiar with the jest. He was certain that Tharkay mentioned it only because he knew that Laurence found it an awkward subject, that he should have such an extravagant tent when he was headed off to war. The teasing tone in his voice only confirmed it.

Laurence did not stoop to rolling his eyes at him, but he was certain that he had not been entirely successful in mastering the exasperation in his expression. Rather than allow whatever barb Tharkay held on the tip of his tongue, Laurence leaned forward to nip at his throat. Tharkay gasped and leaned up to catch his mouth, with a hint of a smile betraying that he was aware of Laurence’s attempts at distraction, and pressed his lips with a kiss as eager as Laurence felt.

His mouth was soft, lips faintly parted, and Laurence could feel the edges where they were chapped from the cold and the wind; his breath ghosted against Laurence’s skin, and Laurence smiled faintly when Tharkay caught him looking. 

Tharkay arched his hips upward, and the feeling of skin across skin dragged a soft gasp from him. Laurence broke the kiss, but did not pull away, leaning his forehead against Tharkay’s, and ground his hips down harder. He groped for the chest that had been deposited next to the bed, digging through it blindly for the oil he’d stowed wrapped in cloth for safekeeping.

Tharkay licked his lips, and the heat of his gaze went straight to Laurence’s groin as he slicked his fingers liberally. He nudged Tharkay’s knees a little further apart, and Tharkay reached up to grip the head of the cot with one hand while Laurence pressed inside with one finger, tentative and slow, stopping more than once to add more lubrication. 

“All right?” Laurence asked, finally, pushing his finger deeper rhythmically. Tharkay chuckled, breathless.

“Will,” Tharkay said with a combination of fondness and irritation. “That—is putting it rather mildly.”

Laurence grinned, adding a second finger. He pressed the two digits in a little more quickly, curling and scissoring his fingers so that Tharkay rocked trembled faintly with the effort of restraining himself. He worked the two fingers for a short while longer, watching the way Tharkay shuddered and gasped under his touch, before finally adding a third. 

Tharkay’s head was tossed back, neck bared as he rocked forward just slightly on Laurence’s fingers. His cheeks were still faintly rosy with windburn; it had been bitterly cold so high aloft, and the force of the wind unforgiving. It gave him a pleasantly flushed look, now, mouth slightly parted as he breathed deep in rhythm with Laurence’s movements.

Tharkay’s free hand fisted in his hair as he slowly entered him, tugging sharply. He’s still tight, and his muscles clenched and quivered around him as Laurence eased deeper, and the raw noise it drew from Tharkay’s throat wasn’t quite a whimper, but it sends a jolt down Laurence’s spine. 

Laurence rolled his hips, slow and deliberate, testing the feeling of the slick glide of the oil on his cock; he swallowed a gasp and flicked his hips forward again, a little rougher, and watched Tharkay’s face twist with pleasure.

This isn’t new to them, but it still has the same effect as if it were their first time; Laurence likes him like this, could not imagine giving it up, and his chest constricted with opposing feelings of fondness and guilt. Because he had given it up, or at least forgotten, and had he not found him as he had, he may never have remembered— 

As though sensing his thoughts, Tharkay hooked one leg behind Laurence’s hips, drawing his full attention. He moved them even closer, until the two of them rocked together as one, pressed together from thighs to hips to chest, sweat-slicked muscles quivering, their breath coming in harsh rasps. Laurence braced on arm on the bed beside him, the other on Tharkay’s thigh, and rolled his hips faster, harder, until each thrust dragged a breathy moan from his throat.

Laurence kept his eyes fixed on Tharkay’s expression, focused on the warmth expanding in his chest, and when Tharkay’s breath hitched quietly to let Laurence know he was close, he leaned down to kiss him messily, gliding his tongue over the fullness of Tharkay’s bottom lip. Tharkay shuddered and came, spilling slick between them. Laurence held him close, his thrusts becoming frantic and uncoordinated as he pushed himself over the edge.

Tharkay made a soft noise when he pulled out, but made no complaints as he rolled onto his side gingerly, pressed up against Tharkay’s chest to keep them both balanced on the bed, and hid his face against his neck, breath still coming in puffs. 

His muscles felt useless and jelly, his shoulders scraped with nail marks—no doubt the act of putting them there had set Tharkay’s fingers to aching, but presently he couldn’t bring himself to chide him for it. He was certain he could sooner climb the full length of the Allegiance’s mast in a gale than walk the length of his tent in this moment. 

Tharkay seemed to be of the same mind; for a moment he was not even sure that he was awake, and then he wasn’t certain that he wanted him to be. Tharkay made a habit of leaving for his own tent before morning, and at the moment Laurence was too comfortable to move for him. Tharkay looked equally content to lie there, his expression peaceful and lacking any of it’s usual wry humor or cynicism, and did not even seem to notice Laurence’s attention. He sighed, repositioning his head on Tharkay’s shoulder, and allowed his eyes to drift close, resolving to allow himself just a moment more before rousing him.

 

 

Laurence woke with a start to the sun on his face; from the angle it shone through the tent, they’d certainly overslept. He rolled and half-dislodged Tenzing in his haste to stand, drawing a disgruntled groan from him as he dragged half the bedding to the floor. The previous day’s...flight must have taken more out of him than he’d originally thought; not even the sounds of the aviators and dragons milling about had roused him. 

He hastily grabbed his coat from the floor and tugged it on. He wasn’t certain why no one had come to wake him, though for that he was at least grateful, as they’d avoided the uncomfortable situation of having to explain their state to whatever unfortunate soul had drawn that lot. Laurence wheeled around while cramming his foot into his boot, neckcloth looped untied around his neck, in order to verify that Tharkay was awake as well.

He was sitting up on the edge of the bed, blearily rubbing sleep from his eyes. There was plenty of light to see that he was in a rough state, looking rumpled and yet soft with sleep. His hair was a mess, and there was a splendid bruise on his neck, just above the collarbone. Laurence flushed, a little embarrassed to have left a bruise in so inconvenient a place to hide, even though Tharkay did not seem much to mind.

Tharkay raised an eyebrow. “Were you in a rush?” he asked, plainly more amused than annoyed by his rude awakening.

“Ah—yes,” he said, “I should—damn it all,” he muttered, for a moment wrestling with his other boot, “I should see why we have not left yet.”

He pushed back the tent flap and glanced around for Temeraire, spotting him some feet away just outside his own pavilion. He made his way over, picking his way through the camp. They looked to be mostly packed, as though they’d been preparing to leave and then for some reason stalled. He turned his gaze to the sky, and realized what had likely caused the delay; though the sun shone over them, distant storm clouds were gathering just north on the horizon. Likely they’d seen them and paused a moment to reconsider their route in order to avoid them.

As Laurence drew closer he could see that Temeraire was conversing with one of the supply dragons. After a moment the dragon nodded and went aloft, and as Temeraire turned his head to watch her go he spotted him, ruff pricking in interest. He watched Laurence approach, eyeing him shrewdly.

“Good morning,” Laurence said, a little hesitant at the odd reception. 

Temeraire swung his head around and stooped low to the ground to examine him.

“Good morning, Laurence,” he said, and also in greeting: “Tharkay,” as the man in question trailed after him a moment later. 

“Why didn’t you wake me?” He indicated their baggage, already mostly stored and sorted, and balked at the idea of his crew hard at work while their captain slept. Temeraire seemed unperturbed, but was still eyeing Laurence peculiarly, and Laurence could see that he was wrestling with himself over something. Instead, he huffed dismissively.

“Oh, it wasn’t necessary, and also we have been delayed by the storm anyway, so you needn’t worry. I wouldn’t have forgotten you,” he added the last bit as an afterthought, as though that may actually have been one of Laurence’s concerns. 

Then, Temeraire leaned in conspiratorially, glancing between the two of them.

“Laurence,” Temeraire began, at what would have been a whisper, were a dragon capable of such a sound, “I am not sure it is proper, under the circumstances, that you should disregard the laws and customs of our company. After all, it is still illegal, though we are not within their borders and cannot truly be held accountable for disobeying their laws… but the Chinese have so kindly lent their assistance, it seems the least we can do is to honor their dress code.” He paused, and then added loftily, “Not that I personally take issue,” in a tone that very clearly telegraphed the opposite, no matter how much he should have liked to disguise it as for propriety’s sake.

Laurence frowned, puzzled for a moment as to what laws he was referring to, and then turned a questioning look to Tharkay. Understanding dawned on him with mild horror, as the gleam of the golden buttons on the coat Tharkay wore caught his attention. He looked down at his own rumpled coat—or rather, Granby’s, and back, hoping perhaps it had been some trick of the light. 

Laurence was certain he’d never flushed so red in his life. He ducked behind Temeraire’s foreleg and hastily divested himself of the offending garment.

“We simply—in my haste to dress—” He looked helplessly to Tharkay, who shrugged and shucked his own jacket, offering it to Laurence to trade, very clearly finding the situation far more amusing than Laurence was.

“Not that there is any reason that Tharkay should not have a fine coat as well, only that he cannot be wearing the prince’s coat,” Temeraire continued, apparently oblivious to Laurence’s suffering. “Perhaps yours will not be as splendid as Laurence’s, but as Arkady cannot properly outfit you, and anyway you are really more mine and Laurence’s than you are his—”

“Temeraire, I must decline,” Tharkay interjected, before he could fully finish the thought, and again when he went to protest. “No, that is quite all right; any extra embellishments would surely be spoiled in my travels.”

This did little to deter Temeraire. He only flattened his ruff slightly, cocking one eye to give Tharkay an appraising look. “I see no reason why you should want to leave, when there is to be a battle soon, and in any case, Laurence is _here_ , and so I do not see why you should be so eager to go haring off across the continent again.” 

This last part he said far too loudly for Laurence’s comfort, though the words were in English and not likely to be understood even were they overheard. Nevertheless, Laurence felt his face color, and noted with equal mortification that Tharkay seemed a little taken aback as well.

“Pray, keep your voice down,” Laurence reminded Temeraire with some exasperation. 

Temeraire bent his head down again to consider Laurence with one large eye, and if he noticed the way the tips of his ears had gone scarlet he said nothing about it.

“We are leaving at midday, to avoid the storm, and to be certain that there is time for supplies to be gathered in the case of a blizzard—” and on along those lines, while Laurence trailed along beside him listening almost too intently. Tharkay quietly excused himself to his own tent, still sporting a faint look of amusement that Laurence pretended ardently not to see, and Laurence quickly turned aside as he passed, hiding a smile of his own.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [nor the likes of the parts of you](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4804106) by [malfaisant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/malfaisant/pseuds/malfaisant)




End file.
